Back to GatefoldIssue #11 by Daniel Ingram
January 2020 |
"Of Blood and Dirt Past"
Then, Afghanistan
Jerome pressed his back up against his armored Humvee, wracking his brain as the convoy was being cut to pieces.
Jerome couldn’t even see their attackers, just the bursts of green and red energy slashed through the air from the north. They tore through steel and stone as if they were butter. The only reason they had any cover at all was because after seven shots, the energy blasts had either kicked up so much dust or vaporized so much rock, the entire area was consumed in a choking, brown fog.
At first, Jerome had assumed that it was the Taliban or some other local assholes, who’d come into super tech and decided to use it against the first available target.
But their firing wasn’t as enthusiastic as Jerome had come to expect of the Taliban, or any locals. They were slow and careful with their shots, probably the only reason why he and his team were still alive.
“We got to get out of here before these assholes just hose us with their cannons!” Special Rogers said, his back pressed against the transport’s tire.
“And go where?” Jerome said, “we got nothing but rocks and more rocks out there! Jensen, do you have eyes on?”
“Not a damn thing,” Jensen replied, “these bastards could be on the moon for all I can see!”
Jerome felt his pulse quicken. Jensen was their best shot, next to him. Calm, professional and reserved, he never rushed a shot or gave into fear. That they were both blind left them with few options about how to get out of this kill box.
Shots rained down like thunder for three terrible minutes, shaking the ground like the footsteps of a giant.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
“Fuckers are probably waiting for the dust to clear,” Jensen said, “we got maybe a minute before they start picking us off, if that. Does anyone have a God damn idea how to get out of this?”
Jerome could feel the attention of his men fall on him, and he knew better than to hesitate in a situation like this, but before he could issue a single command, a whistling sound that every soldier knew by heart.
“Incoming!” Jerome roared, “get down, get down!”
Jerome hunkered down, trying to brace for the explosion.
But he was met with an anti-climatic –thunk!-. He looked towards Jensen, and saw a metal cylinder several yards behind the man.
“Jensen! Behind you!”
Jensen had just begun turning around when the cylinder began spewing out a thick, yellow smoke.
Jerome watched in horror as Jensen’s arm grew four times its natural size, tearing through his sleeves and armor like they were tissue paper, the specialist screaming in agony the entire time.
Jerome had no idea what the chemicals were, but he was confident he knew enough. There was too much gas for such a small cylinder, and could see that it would overwhelm him in a matter of seconds.
Jerome thought about his death countless times. He faced it every day, and made peace with the fact that his life was likely to end bloody.
In the face of that, Jerome had always secretly hoped that, in the end, that his mortal remains were at least left in one piece. He’d seen too many good men shipped home in boxes too small for them, pieces of them still left on the battle field.
Jerome knew that leaving this world with a decent looking corpse was a tall order in his profession, but he never thought he’d be in a position to make the choice for himself.
But the gas was fast approaching, and if he ran, Jerome knew he’d be cut down. So he removed his sidearm, pressed it against his chest, and shot himself in the heart three times.
The gas had just reached Jerome, as he’d begun to fall over, his heart now nothing but torn muscle and shredded meat.
The Soldier fell forward, happy to accept death if it meant that he could at least have an open casket funeral. He didn’t even care how much death hurt.
Now, Hell’s Peak
Hurricane’s head was throbbing as the wound on his side slowly spilled his blood down the side of his leg.
“Damn you’re heavy,” Andi Hunter grunted, as she dragged Hurricane into the room, “and of course you had to have chicken. Makes me want to vomit.”
“You…,” Hurricane struggled to fill his lungs with air, “you need to let me go. We don’t…have time for this.”
“You don’t need to worry about the time,” said Andi, “this room was given to us by AIM. A single second, isolated from the rest of the world. They were even kind enough to throw in a nano-tech floor. Chair, restraints.”
Hurricane felt the floor sweep up and over him, carrying him into the air. The wave of metal receded quickly, leaving Hurricane restrained in a seat that was unsettlingly close in design to that of an electric chair.
Hunter produced a blade and tapped it against her chin. For some reason, Hurricane couldn’t help but notice how the blade pointed at a small mole underneath her eye, “Now, I know you can heal, if your stress levels fall off.”
Hunter dropped the blade into Hurricane’s leg, and twisted the knife.
Hurricane did the only thing he could do, and screamed in agony.
“Lets see if I can’t do something about that.”
Elsewhere
Hrist felt trapped in a painful haze. She struggled to bring forth any thought, any action, but her body rebelled.
“That’s one of them,” Hrist heard someone say. Just trying to remember if she knew the voice brought her so much pain, she nearly fell unconscious.
“You can smell the magic on her, we ought to just leave her here.”
“We have restraints that’ll keep her,” said a new voice, “the others will come for her. If we can’t kill her, then we’ll just hand her too to Dran.
“We have a second one,” said a new voice, “the one with the sword, Bring him too?”
“Might as well. We need to kill that screamer, and her friends will be the perfect bait.”
Then, Afghanistan
“Why do I always have to get the damn samples,” Martin Lin muttered to himself, “I didn’t create this damn thing, why do I have to collect the data? Hmm, no mutation, looks like we got us an outlier.”
Martin rolled Jerome onto his back. He observed the fresh blood on the Specialist’s chest, but was confused when he saw no wound.
“What the hell happened…urk!”
Jerome wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat. His chest burning, his vision blurred, all Jerome knew was that the man leaning over him wasn’t in any uniform that he recognized.
And that made him the enemy.
Jerome felt muscle, bone and tissue crumble underneath his fingers like clay. He gave no thought as the man choked on his own blood, but simply focused on clearing his mind.
Jerome let the body drop, and took stock of the situation. The man he’d just strangled was dressed in a yellow Bee-keeper suit, and everything clicked for Jerome.
AIM. The scientist terrorists who were supposed to fight the Avengers and Fantastic Four, not killing his men.
Jerome knew about him the way most people knew about celebrities. He’d read about them, knew about them, but never actually expected to meet them.
Jerome glanced around quickly, and saw that luck was on his side. He counted three more AIM members, but they were too engrossed in the battlefield to pay any mind to their companion.
They were examining the remains of his team like vultures, talking amongst themselves, chuckling.
And Jerome swore he’d see them dead.
He sat up silently, and without a word, without letting loose the rage that was burning in his chest, Jerome aimed his M4A1 at the three, their backs still turned on him. He pulled the trigger released three quick bursts, each aimed at the men’s black hearts.
The bullets stopped inches from the men, suspended in midair.
“Oh, seems like we got a live one,” said one of the men.
“Ooh, looks like he got the intern too,” said the second man.
“I got this,” said the final man. He raised a pistol that Jerome had never seen before, and Jerome barely scrambled to his feet before a tidal wave of energy would have turned him into ash. He took cover behind a half melted LAV-25 Stryker. The damn thing had survived all kinds of punishment, but now it was little more than a lump of metal.
“You might as well come out,” said the AIM agent, “we’re protected by null fields. They rob any projectiles of any forward momentum. As thin as a sheet of paper, but you’ll never get through it.”
Jerome swapped out his magazine for a full clip.
“This isn’t personal. Just business.”
Jerome stepped out, and began firing. His modified clip held thirty rounds, and to his credit, he divided them perfectly. He sent ten rounds at each men. Ten rounds struck the null field, and hung in midair, like flies in amber.
The third agent of AIM rolled his eyes inside his uniform.
“Hey, Jarhead, did you even hear a thing I said?”
Jerome pulled the produced a grenade, pulled the pin with his middle finger, and tossed it underhanded at the AIM agents.
“What do you think…oh shit!”
The concussion grenade exploded, sending a wave of force in every direction.
The pure energy that struck the null field was harmlessly absorbed. The energy that struck the bullets, suspended in the null field, sent the flying through the air as heated metal.
The three terrorists were blown backwards as the bullets tore through their suits and flesh. The wounds were agonizing, but far from lethal.
“When I strangled your buddy, the null field didn’t do shit,” Jerome calmly walked over to the closest AIM agent, and slid his ka-bar through the man’s spine, just above his waist. The man screamed, but Jerome never flinched.
“That told me, I just needed a little more energy to get through it,” Jerome aimed his sidearm at the two remaining agents. Two shots was all it took to cripple them for life.
Or what remained of it.
“In your next life, don’t brag about how thin your protection is.”
“Please, don’t hurt us…!”
“We surrender!”
Jerome took a moment to take stock of the battlefield. He saw the torn, ruined bodies of his comrades, warped and broken. At just a glance, he could tell that they didn’t die painlessly.
“I don’t care,” Jerome said, “one of you is going to be an example to the other two. Then, after that, one of you is going to tell me what I want to know, and get a clean death.”
“Who wants to see who gets what?”
Now
“What’s your mission?” Andi Hunter backhanded Hurricane across the face, drawing blood.
“Kill Dran,” Hurricane replied, “tear this place down brick by brick.”
Andi Hunter jammed her thumb into Hurricane’s wound.
“I don’t believe you,” Andi said, “you picked a fight with an indestructible man in a building filled with super criminals. A man who never crossed you. There’s got to be more to this than money.”
“I think you know what Mr. Raven offered me,” Hurricane replied, “but you’d never believe me.”
Andi held up a taser. She tapped the trigger, and produced a few sparks.
“You better make me a believer,” Andi pressed the taser against Hurricane’s knee, right above where he knew to be an important nerve cluster, “let’s see if you can do that while screaming.”
Then, Afghanistan
Jerome arrived back at base in the dead of night, having hijacked the hover platform the AIM agents had used to sneak in country, and murder his men. He stopped three miles short of the base, not wanting to betray his presence.
Any official inquiry into his survival would only tip off his prey, and Jerome couldn’t have that. He was confident that, by now, the remains of his men, and the pieces of their attackers, had been discovered. It wouldn’t be long now before it was run up the food chain, and those SHIELD bastards got involved.
For the sake of his team, Jerome knew that every second counted.
That was why, a few days ago, Jerome had paid a visit to Colonel Jacob’s quarters, the man who had been impersonating him to commit his crimes, and the man who paid AIM to kill him.
The man Jerome would see dead, slowly.
Jerome had left the man’s boots with a small, GPS tracker, tied to an app on his phone. The ambush had cracked the screen, but it was otherwise working perfectly.
It led Jerome to a small, off the books hangar that was used by CIA for renditions, black-ops and whatever shit they happened to be cooking up.
And as it so happened, the building was lit up like a Christmas tree. When Jerome saw that, he stopped, and took out his binoculars.
He reigned in his bloodlust just long enough to count how many bodies were inside the building, and to confirm that Nolan was there as well.
Jerome could feel the anger in his veins rising up, and his trigger finger began twitching, but he pushed past it.
First, he confirmed that Nolan was there, organizing his men into stacking crates and whatever the hell his scheme was. Satisfied that he had his prey, Jerome moved his attention to the man’s backup. He examined the men and women, but only for a moment. Their unchipped fingernails, suntans and hair just out of basic, Jerome had seen grass that wasn’t as green as these soldiers.
“Well, you lay with dogs, you get fleas,” Jerome growled.
Jerome could think of dozens upon dozens of methods of approach, but there was only one truly satisfying method he could think of.
So instead of seeking cover, instead of approaching unseen, Jerome simply checked his ammunition, took several calming breaths until the rage in his heart was expressed by nothing but a twitch in his eye, and then simply strode forward.
The men and women organizing the crates never gave him a second thought, at first. One or two observed his approach with curiosity. It wasn’t as if heavily armed men were all that rare in their profession, after all.
That calm demeanour broke when Jerome put a bullet through the eye of a blond-haired corporal, splattering his blood onto the Hispanic soldier next to him.
There were screams of panic and confusion. But Jerome paid them little attention, except to confirm that they were unarmed.
But he did savour the look of panic that came over Colonel Nolan’s face when he turned around, and saw a man who should be dead.
The Colonel turned to run, but Jerome placed a bullet in the back of the coward’s leg.
Once his main target was down, the blood-soaked soldier turned his attention to the man’s hired help.
Instinct took over, and within three minutes, Jerome was the only one left standing.
But not the only one breathing.
“Because of you bastards, my team died quick and ugly.”
Jerome unsheathed his k-bar.
“There’s only going to be one difference between you and them.”
The MPs found Jerome twelve hours later, his uniform covered in dirt and blood.
He offered no resistance as they cuffed him. His bloodlust was satisfied, his team was avenged and most importantly, these men were simply doing their duty. Jerome wasn’t about to hurt his fellow servicemen.
Now
Keiko Sato paced around her younger sister’s bed, carefully eying the ring of salt around her bed.
Ami had slept every day now for the past six years, yet she looked no older than the day she was first cursed.
Keiko, not for the first time, cursed the fact that her family had decided to keep her contained here, in this filthy tower, awash in opportunistic criminals. She sometimes wondered what Dran would do, how he would react, if he knew the truth.
Would he kill Ami, just to be safe? Or sell her to some greater monster, who would think nothing of using her curse.
Instinctively, Keiko reached out for her sister, even after all this time.
But the moment her hand passed over the ring of salt, she saw her sister’s eyes flutter and her mouth began to open.
Keiko snapped her hand back as if she’d touched a livewire.
“Sleep well, sister,” Keiko said, with a heavy sob, “and sleep deep.”
Then
Jerome rubbed his wrists. The cuffs were beginning to chafe, and he wondered how much longer he had to endure them. And he wondered how much longer it would be, before whomever summoned him to interrogation would show his damn face.
Not that he minded the change in scenery much. The last few days, Jerome had been locked in the brig, with no less than three guards at all times.
Apparently, his word of his work had spread around the base, and the brass weren’t about to risk another slaughter.
Not that they really had to worry, Jerome reflected. Nolan and his people got what they deserved. His fellow service members were something else entirely.
“Mr. Banks,” Jerome recognized the voice instantly, “what a fine mess you made.”
“Bridge,” Jerome growled, “I should kill you right here and now. My team is dead because of you!”
GW Bridge took a seat opposite of Jerome.
“Your team is dead because you got cabin fever and pulled yourself what you thought was a low risk mission,” Bridge replied.
“You said-” Jerome started.
“I may have implied that we were close to rolling up Nolan,” Bridge snapped, “but Shield works on a time table we decide, not you. And because you couldn’t keep it in your pants, a lot of good people are dead.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me about my team,” Jerome said.
“Oh, I can leave them out of this entirely,” Bridge slid a manila folder across the table to Jerome. The Special Force soldier opened, and recognized the picture in the photo as the man he’d killed alongside Nolan, blowing out his kneecap to start.
“Private First Class Kellerman. In country for a whopping three days,” Bridge said, “his paperwork got mixed up. He was supposed to be working in Germany, but his teachers said that his technical skills were excellent, so they brought him over to help with some computer upgrades.”
“First class?” Jerome said aloud, baffled.
“You got the file right in front of you,” Bridge said, “here’s another. Private First Helen Butler. In country four days.”
Jerome opened the file, and saw a woman with a mole under her eye.
“She was here to some intelligence learn some hands-on intelligence analysis,” said Bridge, “I don’t see that happening now, do you?”
Jerome examined the files closely, looking for any flaw, anything that might give away a forgery.
“Next one’s my favourite,” Bridge slid another folder across the table, “Mike Baker. Formerly of the Aryan Nation, having joined the US army to learn skills and tactics he could take back to his fellow Skinheads.”
For a moment, Jerome felt some relief from the knot that was forming in his stomach.
“Of course, we only know this because he confessed it to his drill sergeant while in basic,” Bridge continued, “two weeks in was enough to get some sense into him. Confessed the whole thing, we never had a clue. He’s been working with the FBI and Justice for months now as a mole.”
“This is some sick joke,” Jerome said, his heart beginning to jackhammer, “I know what I saw!”
“You see me laughing, son?” said Bridge, “it is almost funny, in a way. You killed the only Nazi a black man shouldn’t kill. While you killed his multi-racial friends. Hilarious.”
Jerome could barely breathe, “This is impossible, I saw them working with Nolan-”
“No, you saw a bunch of new fish loading material,” Bridge said, “and you leapt to conclusions from there. Tell me, how many Castle cards do you think you earned, for what you did that night? Three at least, by my count.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerome said reflexively. His head was spinning as the truth began to crush him from all sides, but he still had enough of his wits
Bridge tossed a handful cards across the table, cards with a white skull and black ground, feared by criminals the world over.
“Don’t bullshit me, son, I know what they are,” Bridge said, “see, I was a young buck, too. Hated John Wayne but wanted to be a cowboy. But then I grew the hell up. And I never killed some wet behind the ears servicemen for loading God damn boxes.”
Jerome stopped fighting the tears. He hadn’t wept since his parent’s funeral, and even that wasn’t as painful, as agonizing as what Jerome felt now. It felt like a knife through his heart, realizing that the pain he felt when he lost his team, he himself had inflicted on even more families.
Bridge took his seat across from Jerome, and waited patiently as the guilt sank into the man’s bones.
“When I heard about what happened, I had them isolate you,” Bridge said, “cherry on top of this shit show, you torpedoed my investigation. The evidence I have on Nolan’s real associates? His network that he was funnelling guns to? It’s all compromised. They’ve gone to ground, probably waiting to see how this all plays out.”
Jerome swallowed the lump in his throat, “What do you think they would do, if Nolan was found to be innocent?”
“What are you suggesting?” Bridge said.
“You said Nolan was framing me, right?” Jerome said. He removed a paperclip from the folders in front of him, “change some details in the official report, make it so you blame me for all the weapons that he stole. His buddies think that you’re looking in the wrong direction…”
“And they might come up for air,” Bridge said, “good idea, but won’t work. Leaking the details would be too hard, and the facts will come out at your sentencing regardless.”
“Not if I escaped,” Jerome said, “all you’d have to do is leak something to the motor pool, and it’d be across base by lunch.”
“Even if I had the authority, I’m not about to let you walk into even worse charges,” Bridge said, “you’re looking at fifty years, easily. I shift the facts, and let you walk out of here, the next time you’re in custody, it will be for an execution.”
“You don’t have to let me,” Jerome flicked his wrist, and the tiny paperclip sailed across the air, just under Bridge’s earlobe and embedded itself into the masonry wall.
Bridge stared at it for a moment, dumbstruck.
“The chemical weapon that they used to kill my team may have had some side effects.”
“Got an arm like a hurricane, huh?” Bridge turned back to Jerome, “tell me, you sure you thought this thorough?”
“If I’m in the wind then you won’t have to reveal anything about your investigation” Jerome replied, “and if I get killed, all the better, right?”
“Won’t lose too much sleep,” Bridge said, “alright kid, I’ll let you play this hand. All those sociopaths out there, might be worthwhile to have a merc we can rely on. But if you kill a single soldier in your escape…”
“I won’t,” Jerome said, “I know the rules of engagement now.”
Now
Andi Hunter pressed a taser against Hurricane’s knee, and her lip curled into a snarl.
“Tell me why you’re here,” Andi activated the taser, and Hurricane’s screams felt sweeter than any wine, “make it convincing, and make it fast.”
Hurricane tested his bonds, as he struggled to hold a breath, “You wouldn’t believe me.”
Hunter activated the taser again.
“Wrong answer,” she allowed Hurricane a moment’s reprieve. She placed the taser somewhere more personal, “you can try again when you stop screaming.”
Andi activated the taser, and was unprepared as Hurricane ripped free of his restraints. One hand slapped the taser away, and the other grabbed her throat in a steel grip.
“Please,” Hurricane clenched his empty hand, “please, stop doing that.”
Hurricane saw a look of panic sweep over Andi.
“Don’t hurt me, I’m…!”
“You’re what?”
Panic disappeared in a blink, replaced by grim determination.
“I’m not going to beg for my life,” Andi said, “hell, go ahead and kill me, just so I don’t have to smell your breath anymore.”
“You don’t want to know why I’m really here?” said Hurricane.
“Oh, and why is that?”
Hurricane, holding Andi by the throat, met her eyes and said, “I’m here to save you, of course.”
“Sir, we just got confirmation, Weapon Chi has been destroyed.”
Damian grinded his teeth. In her short time in his service, Weapon Chi had been his most reliable tool, his most efficient means of keeping his tenants in line, and his enemies in the ground. She was just below Mr. Grey in terms of reliability, and now, just like him, she was dead, ripped from his service.
“Recall Midnight and Solution,” Dran ordered, “these bastards clearly are after me. We’ll wait for these bastards at the end of their bloody marathon.”
“Save me?” Andi looked at Hurricane with undisguised contempt, “you expect me to believe that?”
“Give me a chance,” Hurricane released his grip on her neck, “I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”
Hunter rubbed her bruised neck, “Then you know?”
“That I killed your twin sister?” Hurricane said, “I’m not some psycho like Sabretooth or Bullseye. I know the faces of my victims. At least, the innocent ones.”
“She was barely out of basic,” Hunter growled, her eyes wet with tears, “you butchered her like an animal…!”
“And I will never forgive myself for that,” Hurricane said, “and I would never ask that of you. All I ask is that you let me get you and your baby out of here. After that, we can settle up.”
Andi went pale.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You just told me, though the fact that you could smell the chicken I had with Solution was a clue. More than that, Project Hades is an odd name for a mission,” Hurricane said, “going into hell is the obvious thought, but Mr. Raven showed me a photo of you to recruit me. In Greek mythology, Hades kidnapped Persephone to be his bride. I’m guessing that you weren’t exactly kidnapped?”
“Mr. Raven planted me in Dran’s organization,” Andi said, “let’s just say that I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. I got close, got the intel he wanted, but at a price that comes due in a few months. I’m just lucky I’m not showing. Women in my family usually don’t.”
“All the same, your luck won’t hold forever,” said Hurricane, “so you have to make a choice. Trust me, or don’t. But you have to make a decision now.”
Hell’s Peake, normal time
“Damn it, he should be here,” Warcry said.
“He’s clearly not,” said Scorpion, “we should leave. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the chance we have of being found and horribly murdered.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Mr. Raven replied, “but to be frank, we are not enough. Even if he were here, we still wouldn’t be enough. We need every inch we can get!”
“There aren’t enough blades in the world to help you now air-breather.”
Mr. Raven, Warcry, and Scorpion muttered the same thing under their breath, as they turned and saw six Atlantean women approaching. They wore heavy metal armor, with gold shields on their wrists and spears in their hands. Their skin was lime green, and wore metal helmets filled with water.
“Dran has decreed your death,” said the leader, “and we, the Sisters Six of True Atlantis, will see to your end!”
-blam!-
The Atlantean farthest from them fell backwards, a bullet having pierced her eye.
“Excuse me,” Hurricane said, stepping past his fellow mercs, “I have a surprising amount of bloodlust I need to work off.”
Warcry observed a twitch in Hurricane’s eye.
“Help yourself.”
The Sisters of Atlantis all took an involuntary step backwards as they observed Hurricane. They knew of his past battles, and had assumed him wounded, depleted.
But the man standing before them didn’t have a mark on them. His body armor was brand new. He had a berretta on each hip, his vibranium machete in a sheath over his left shoulder, and a shotgun over his right. And his expression was pure ice.
“Sister Two! Spear this fool!”
The spear flew faster than Mr. Raven’s optics could track. All he saw was one of the Atleantean women motion, then Hurricane step to the side, catching it in one hand.
“Thank you.”
Hurricane snapped it in two, and two seconds later, there were only three remaining Sisters of Atlantis.
“Ordinarily, I’d let you run,” Hurricane saw how the three looked among one another, “but I can’t do that and I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ll kill you myself!” Sister One charged at Hurricane, her spear aimed at his heart.
“In combat, distance is your friend,” Hurricane swept his right wrist up, redirecting the spear away from his body, and then slammed his fist into Sister One’s throat.
“You and your friend,” Hurricane picked up Sister One’s shield, as she slowly tumbled to the ground, coughing up blood. He tested the weight for a second, and then sent it slicing through the air in an arc that would have impressed Captain America himself.
It struck the north side of the wall, ricocheted and then embedded itself in the metal of the south wall, leaving no Sisters of Atlantis standing.
“Damn dude,” Scorpion said, “PMS much?”
“I’ve had a day,” said Hurricane.
“Wouldn’t know it from looking at you,” Warcry said
“You have me to thank for that,” Andi Hunter said.
Warcry and Scorpion looked at Hunter with a wary eye. The fact that she wasn’t directing an army at them was a hopeful sign, but neither woman had survived this long by letting their guard down.
“Andi,” Mr. Raven said, “I hoped to greet you in better circumstances, but fate hasn’t been kind.”
“Clearly not,” Andi said, “I can’t linger long. Dran will begin to suspect me if I’m radio silent too long, and I can’t control the tenants without raising suspicions.”
“Well, I have this,” Andi handed Mr. Raven a handheld digital pad, “this will give you access to most of the cameras. And I can tell you where to find your friends, Hrist and the idiot with the sword.”
“Fate actually is smiling at someone,” Andi looked at Warcry with an amused chuckle, “they’re being held by an old friend of yours, General Tier.”
Warcry’s bloodied lips curled into a smile.
“About time I killed someone I actually wanted to.”
Next issue: Rescue, revenge and murder mission! But one cast member may not make it out alive!
Jerome pressed his back up against his armored Humvee, wracking his brain as the convoy was being cut to pieces.
Jerome couldn’t even see their attackers, just the bursts of green and red energy slashed through the air from the north. They tore through steel and stone as if they were butter. The only reason they had any cover at all was because after seven shots, the energy blasts had either kicked up so much dust or vaporized so much rock, the entire area was consumed in a choking, brown fog.
At first, Jerome had assumed that it was the Taliban or some other local assholes, who’d come into super tech and decided to use it against the first available target.
But their firing wasn’t as enthusiastic as Jerome had come to expect of the Taliban, or any locals. They were slow and careful with their shots, probably the only reason why he and his team were still alive.
“We got to get out of here before these assholes just hose us with their cannons!” Special Rogers said, his back pressed against the transport’s tire.
“And go where?” Jerome said, “we got nothing but rocks and more rocks out there! Jensen, do you have eyes on?”
“Not a damn thing,” Jensen replied, “these bastards could be on the moon for all I can see!”
Jerome felt his pulse quicken. Jensen was their best shot, next to him. Calm, professional and reserved, he never rushed a shot or gave into fear. That they were both blind left them with few options about how to get out of this kill box.
Shots rained down like thunder for three terrible minutes, shaking the ground like the footsteps of a giant.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
“Fuckers are probably waiting for the dust to clear,” Jensen said, “we got maybe a minute before they start picking us off, if that. Does anyone have a God damn idea how to get out of this?”
Jerome could feel the attention of his men fall on him, and he knew better than to hesitate in a situation like this, but before he could issue a single command, a whistling sound that every soldier knew by heart.
“Incoming!” Jerome roared, “get down, get down!”
Jerome hunkered down, trying to brace for the explosion.
But he was met with an anti-climatic –thunk!-. He looked towards Jensen, and saw a metal cylinder several yards behind the man.
“Jensen! Behind you!”
Jensen had just begun turning around when the cylinder began spewing out a thick, yellow smoke.
Jerome watched in horror as Jensen’s arm grew four times its natural size, tearing through his sleeves and armor like they were tissue paper, the specialist screaming in agony the entire time.
Jerome had no idea what the chemicals were, but he was confident he knew enough. There was too much gas for such a small cylinder, and could see that it would overwhelm him in a matter of seconds.
Jerome thought about his death countless times. He faced it every day, and made peace with the fact that his life was likely to end bloody.
In the face of that, Jerome had always secretly hoped that, in the end, that his mortal remains were at least left in one piece. He’d seen too many good men shipped home in boxes too small for them, pieces of them still left on the battle field.
Jerome knew that leaving this world with a decent looking corpse was a tall order in his profession, but he never thought he’d be in a position to make the choice for himself.
But the gas was fast approaching, and if he ran, Jerome knew he’d be cut down. So he removed his sidearm, pressed it against his chest, and shot himself in the heart three times.
The gas had just reached Jerome, as he’d begun to fall over, his heart now nothing but torn muscle and shredded meat.
The Soldier fell forward, happy to accept death if it meant that he could at least have an open casket funeral. He didn’t even care how much death hurt.
Now, Hell’s Peak
Hurricane’s head was throbbing as the wound on his side slowly spilled his blood down the side of his leg.
“Damn you’re heavy,” Andi Hunter grunted, as she dragged Hurricane into the room, “and of course you had to have chicken. Makes me want to vomit.”
“You…,” Hurricane struggled to fill his lungs with air, “you need to let me go. We don’t…have time for this.”
“You don’t need to worry about the time,” said Andi, “this room was given to us by AIM. A single second, isolated from the rest of the world. They were even kind enough to throw in a nano-tech floor. Chair, restraints.”
Hurricane felt the floor sweep up and over him, carrying him into the air. The wave of metal receded quickly, leaving Hurricane restrained in a seat that was unsettlingly close in design to that of an electric chair.
Hunter produced a blade and tapped it against her chin. For some reason, Hurricane couldn’t help but notice how the blade pointed at a small mole underneath her eye, “Now, I know you can heal, if your stress levels fall off.”
Hunter dropped the blade into Hurricane’s leg, and twisted the knife.
Hurricane did the only thing he could do, and screamed in agony.
“Lets see if I can’t do something about that.”
Elsewhere
Hrist felt trapped in a painful haze. She struggled to bring forth any thought, any action, but her body rebelled.
“That’s one of them,” Hrist heard someone say. Just trying to remember if she knew the voice brought her so much pain, she nearly fell unconscious.
“You can smell the magic on her, we ought to just leave her here.”
“We have restraints that’ll keep her,” said a new voice, “the others will come for her. If we can’t kill her, then we’ll just hand her too to Dran.
“We have a second one,” said a new voice, “the one with the sword, Bring him too?”
“Might as well. We need to kill that screamer, and her friends will be the perfect bait.”
Then, Afghanistan
“Why do I always have to get the damn samples,” Martin Lin muttered to himself, “I didn’t create this damn thing, why do I have to collect the data? Hmm, no mutation, looks like we got us an outlier.”
Martin rolled Jerome onto his back. He observed the fresh blood on the Specialist’s chest, but was confused when he saw no wound.
“What the hell happened…urk!”
Jerome wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat. His chest burning, his vision blurred, all Jerome knew was that the man leaning over him wasn’t in any uniform that he recognized.
And that made him the enemy.
Jerome felt muscle, bone and tissue crumble underneath his fingers like clay. He gave no thought as the man choked on his own blood, but simply focused on clearing his mind.
Jerome let the body drop, and took stock of the situation. The man he’d just strangled was dressed in a yellow Bee-keeper suit, and everything clicked for Jerome.
AIM. The scientist terrorists who were supposed to fight the Avengers and Fantastic Four, not killing his men.
Jerome knew about him the way most people knew about celebrities. He’d read about them, knew about them, but never actually expected to meet them.
Jerome glanced around quickly, and saw that luck was on his side. He counted three more AIM members, but they were too engrossed in the battlefield to pay any mind to their companion.
They were examining the remains of his team like vultures, talking amongst themselves, chuckling.
And Jerome swore he’d see them dead.
He sat up silently, and without a word, without letting loose the rage that was burning in his chest, Jerome aimed his M4A1 at the three, their backs still turned on him. He pulled the trigger released three quick bursts, each aimed at the men’s black hearts.
The bullets stopped inches from the men, suspended in midair.
“Oh, seems like we got a live one,” said one of the men.
“Ooh, looks like he got the intern too,” said the second man.
“I got this,” said the final man. He raised a pistol that Jerome had never seen before, and Jerome barely scrambled to his feet before a tidal wave of energy would have turned him into ash. He took cover behind a half melted LAV-25 Stryker. The damn thing had survived all kinds of punishment, but now it was little more than a lump of metal.
“You might as well come out,” said the AIM agent, “we’re protected by null fields. They rob any projectiles of any forward momentum. As thin as a sheet of paper, but you’ll never get through it.”
Jerome swapped out his magazine for a full clip.
“This isn’t personal. Just business.”
Jerome stepped out, and began firing. His modified clip held thirty rounds, and to his credit, he divided them perfectly. He sent ten rounds at each men. Ten rounds struck the null field, and hung in midair, like flies in amber.
The third agent of AIM rolled his eyes inside his uniform.
“Hey, Jarhead, did you even hear a thing I said?”
Jerome pulled the produced a grenade, pulled the pin with his middle finger, and tossed it underhanded at the AIM agents.
“What do you think…oh shit!”
The concussion grenade exploded, sending a wave of force in every direction.
The pure energy that struck the null field was harmlessly absorbed. The energy that struck the bullets, suspended in the null field, sent the flying through the air as heated metal.
The three terrorists were blown backwards as the bullets tore through their suits and flesh. The wounds were agonizing, but far from lethal.
“When I strangled your buddy, the null field didn’t do shit,” Jerome calmly walked over to the closest AIM agent, and slid his ka-bar through the man’s spine, just above his waist. The man screamed, but Jerome never flinched.
“That told me, I just needed a little more energy to get through it,” Jerome aimed his sidearm at the two remaining agents. Two shots was all it took to cripple them for life.
Or what remained of it.
“In your next life, don’t brag about how thin your protection is.”
“Please, don’t hurt us…!”
“We surrender!”
Jerome took a moment to take stock of the battlefield. He saw the torn, ruined bodies of his comrades, warped and broken. At just a glance, he could tell that they didn’t die painlessly.
“I don’t care,” Jerome said, “one of you is going to be an example to the other two. Then, after that, one of you is going to tell me what I want to know, and get a clean death.”
“Who wants to see who gets what?”
Now
“What’s your mission?” Andi Hunter backhanded Hurricane across the face, drawing blood.
“Kill Dran,” Hurricane replied, “tear this place down brick by brick.”
Andi Hunter jammed her thumb into Hurricane’s wound.
“I don’t believe you,” Andi said, “you picked a fight with an indestructible man in a building filled with super criminals. A man who never crossed you. There’s got to be more to this than money.”
“I think you know what Mr. Raven offered me,” Hurricane replied, “but you’d never believe me.”
Andi held up a taser. She tapped the trigger, and produced a few sparks.
“You better make me a believer,” Andi pressed the taser against Hurricane’s knee, right above where he knew to be an important nerve cluster, “let’s see if you can do that while screaming.”
Then, Afghanistan
Jerome arrived back at base in the dead of night, having hijacked the hover platform the AIM agents had used to sneak in country, and murder his men. He stopped three miles short of the base, not wanting to betray his presence.
Any official inquiry into his survival would only tip off his prey, and Jerome couldn’t have that. He was confident that, by now, the remains of his men, and the pieces of their attackers, had been discovered. It wouldn’t be long now before it was run up the food chain, and those SHIELD bastards got involved.
For the sake of his team, Jerome knew that every second counted.
That was why, a few days ago, Jerome had paid a visit to Colonel Jacob’s quarters, the man who had been impersonating him to commit his crimes, and the man who paid AIM to kill him.
The man Jerome would see dead, slowly.
Jerome had left the man’s boots with a small, GPS tracker, tied to an app on his phone. The ambush had cracked the screen, but it was otherwise working perfectly.
It led Jerome to a small, off the books hangar that was used by CIA for renditions, black-ops and whatever shit they happened to be cooking up.
And as it so happened, the building was lit up like a Christmas tree. When Jerome saw that, he stopped, and took out his binoculars.
He reigned in his bloodlust just long enough to count how many bodies were inside the building, and to confirm that Nolan was there as well.
Jerome could feel the anger in his veins rising up, and his trigger finger began twitching, but he pushed past it.
First, he confirmed that Nolan was there, organizing his men into stacking crates and whatever the hell his scheme was. Satisfied that he had his prey, Jerome moved his attention to the man’s backup. He examined the men and women, but only for a moment. Their unchipped fingernails, suntans and hair just out of basic, Jerome had seen grass that wasn’t as green as these soldiers.
“Well, you lay with dogs, you get fleas,” Jerome growled.
Jerome could think of dozens upon dozens of methods of approach, but there was only one truly satisfying method he could think of.
So instead of seeking cover, instead of approaching unseen, Jerome simply checked his ammunition, took several calming breaths until the rage in his heart was expressed by nothing but a twitch in his eye, and then simply strode forward.
The men and women organizing the crates never gave him a second thought, at first. One or two observed his approach with curiosity. It wasn’t as if heavily armed men were all that rare in their profession, after all.
That calm demeanour broke when Jerome put a bullet through the eye of a blond-haired corporal, splattering his blood onto the Hispanic soldier next to him.
There were screams of panic and confusion. But Jerome paid them little attention, except to confirm that they were unarmed.
But he did savour the look of panic that came over Colonel Nolan’s face when he turned around, and saw a man who should be dead.
The Colonel turned to run, but Jerome placed a bullet in the back of the coward’s leg.
Once his main target was down, the blood-soaked soldier turned his attention to the man’s hired help.
Instinct took over, and within three minutes, Jerome was the only one left standing.
But not the only one breathing.
“Because of you bastards, my team died quick and ugly.”
Jerome unsheathed his k-bar.
“There’s only going to be one difference between you and them.”
The MPs found Jerome twelve hours later, his uniform covered in dirt and blood.
He offered no resistance as they cuffed him. His bloodlust was satisfied, his team was avenged and most importantly, these men were simply doing their duty. Jerome wasn’t about to hurt his fellow servicemen.
Now
Keiko Sato paced around her younger sister’s bed, carefully eying the ring of salt around her bed.
Ami had slept every day now for the past six years, yet she looked no older than the day she was first cursed.
Keiko, not for the first time, cursed the fact that her family had decided to keep her contained here, in this filthy tower, awash in opportunistic criminals. She sometimes wondered what Dran would do, how he would react, if he knew the truth.
Would he kill Ami, just to be safe? Or sell her to some greater monster, who would think nothing of using her curse.
Instinctively, Keiko reached out for her sister, even after all this time.
But the moment her hand passed over the ring of salt, she saw her sister’s eyes flutter and her mouth began to open.
Keiko snapped her hand back as if she’d touched a livewire.
“Sleep well, sister,” Keiko said, with a heavy sob, “and sleep deep.”
Then
Jerome rubbed his wrists. The cuffs were beginning to chafe, and he wondered how much longer he had to endure them. And he wondered how much longer it would be, before whomever summoned him to interrogation would show his damn face.
Not that he minded the change in scenery much. The last few days, Jerome had been locked in the brig, with no less than three guards at all times.
Apparently, his word of his work had spread around the base, and the brass weren’t about to risk another slaughter.
Not that they really had to worry, Jerome reflected. Nolan and his people got what they deserved. His fellow service members were something else entirely.
“Mr. Banks,” Jerome recognized the voice instantly, “what a fine mess you made.”
“Bridge,” Jerome growled, “I should kill you right here and now. My team is dead because of you!”
GW Bridge took a seat opposite of Jerome.
“Your team is dead because you got cabin fever and pulled yourself what you thought was a low risk mission,” Bridge replied.
“You said-” Jerome started.
“I may have implied that we were close to rolling up Nolan,” Bridge snapped, “but Shield works on a time table we decide, not you. And because you couldn’t keep it in your pants, a lot of good people are dead.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me about my team,” Jerome said.
“Oh, I can leave them out of this entirely,” Bridge slid a manila folder across the table to Jerome. The Special Force soldier opened, and recognized the picture in the photo as the man he’d killed alongside Nolan, blowing out his kneecap to start.
“Private First Class Kellerman. In country for a whopping three days,” Bridge said, “his paperwork got mixed up. He was supposed to be working in Germany, but his teachers said that his technical skills were excellent, so they brought him over to help with some computer upgrades.”
“First class?” Jerome said aloud, baffled.
“You got the file right in front of you,” Bridge said, “here’s another. Private First Helen Butler. In country four days.”
Jerome opened the file, and saw a woman with a mole under her eye.
“She was here to some intelligence learn some hands-on intelligence analysis,” said Bridge, “I don’t see that happening now, do you?”
Jerome examined the files closely, looking for any flaw, anything that might give away a forgery.
“Next one’s my favourite,” Bridge slid another folder across the table, “Mike Baker. Formerly of the Aryan Nation, having joined the US army to learn skills and tactics he could take back to his fellow Skinheads.”
For a moment, Jerome felt some relief from the knot that was forming in his stomach.
“Of course, we only know this because he confessed it to his drill sergeant while in basic,” Bridge continued, “two weeks in was enough to get some sense into him. Confessed the whole thing, we never had a clue. He’s been working with the FBI and Justice for months now as a mole.”
“This is some sick joke,” Jerome said, his heart beginning to jackhammer, “I know what I saw!”
“You see me laughing, son?” said Bridge, “it is almost funny, in a way. You killed the only Nazi a black man shouldn’t kill. While you killed his multi-racial friends. Hilarious.”
Jerome could barely breathe, “This is impossible, I saw them working with Nolan-”
“No, you saw a bunch of new fish loading material,” Bridge said, “and you leapt to conclusions from there. Tell me, how many Castle cards do you think you earned, for what you did that night? Three at least, by my count.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerome said reflexively. His head was spinning as the truth began to crush him from all sides, but he still had enough of his wits
Bridge tossed a handful cards across the table, cards with a white skull and black ground, feared by criminals the world over.
“Don’t bullshit me, son, I know what they are,” Bridge said, “see, I was a young buck, too. Hated John Wayne but wanted to be a cowboy. But then I grew the hell up. And I never killed some wet behind the ears servicemen for loading God damn boxes.”
Jerome stopped fighting the tears. He hadn’t wept since his parent’s funeral, and even that wasn’t as painful, as agonizing as what Jerome felt now. It felt like a knife through his heart, realizing that the pain he felt when he lost his team, he himself had inflicted on even more families.
Bridge took his seat across from Jerome, and waited patiently as the guilt sank into the man’s bones.
“When I heard about what happened, I had them isolate you,” Bridge said, “cherry on top of this shit show, you torpedoed my investigation. The evidence I have on Nolan’s real associates? His network that he was funnelling guns to? It’s all compromised. They’ve gone to ground, probably waiting to see how this all plays out.”
Jerome swallowed the lump in his throat, “What do you think they would do, if Nolan was found to be innocent?”
“What are you suggesting?” Bridge said.
“You said Nolan was framing me, right?” Jerome said. He removed a paperclip from the folders in front of him, “change some details in the official report, make it so you blame me for all the weapons that he stole. His buddies think that you’re looking in the wrong direction…”
“And they might come up for air,” Bridge said, “good idea, but won’t work. Leaking the details would be too hard, and the facts will come out at your sentencing regardless.”
“Not if I escaped,” Jerome said, “all you’d have to do is leak something to the motor pool, and it’d be across base by lunch.”
“Even if I had the authority, I’m not about to let you walk into even worse charges,” Bridge said, “you’re looking at fifty years, easily. I shift the facts, and let you walk out of here, the next time you’re in custody, it will be for an execution.”
“You don’t have to let me,” Jerome flicked his wrist, and the tiny paperclip sailed across the air, just under Bridge’s earlobe and embedded itself into the masonry wall.
Bridge stared at it for a moment, dumbstruck.
“The chemical weapon that they used to kill my team may have had some side effects.”
“Got an arm like a hurricane, huh?” Bridge turned back to Jerome, “tell me, you sure you thought this thorough?”
“If I’m in the wind then you won’t have to reveal anything about your investigation” Jerome replied, “and if I get killed, all the better, right?”
“Won’t lose too much sleep,” Bridge said, “alright kid, I’ll let you play this hand. All those sociopaths out there, might be worthwhile to have a merc we can rely on. But if you kill a single soldier in your escape…”
“I won’t,” Jerome said, “I know the rules of engagement now.”
Now
Andi Hunter pressed a taser against Hurricane’s knee, and her lip curled into a snarl.
“Tell me why you’re here,” Andi activated the taser, and Hurricane’s screams felt sweeter than any wine, “make it convincing, and make it fast.”
Hurricane tested his bonds, as he struggled to hold a breath, “You wouldn’t believe me.”
Hunter activated the taser again.
“Wrong answer,” she allowed Hurricane a moment’s reprieve. She placed the taser somewhere more personal, “you can try again when you stop screaming.”
Andi activated the taser, and was unprepared as Hurricane ripped free of his restraints. One hand slapped the taser away, and the other grabbed her throat in a steel grip.
“Please,” Hurricane clenched his empty hand, “please, stop doing that.”
Hurricane saw a look of panic sweep over Andi.
“Don’t hurt me, I’m…!”
“You’re what?”
Panic disappeared in a blink, replaced by grim determination.
“I’m not going to beg for my life,” Andi said, “hell, go ahead and kill me, just so I don’t have to smell your breath anymore.”
“You don’t want to know why I’m really here?” said Hurricane.
“Oh, and why is that?”
Hurricane, holding Andi by the throat, met her eyes and said, “I’m here to save you, of course.”
“Sir, we just got confirmation, Weapon Chi has been destroyed.”
Damian grinded his teeth. In her short time in his service, Weapon Chi had been his most reliable tool, his most efficient means of keeping his tenants in line, and his enemies in the ground. She was just below Mr. Grey in terms of reliability, and now, just like him, she was dead, ripped from his service.
“Recall Midnight and Solution,” Dran ordered, “these bastards clearly are after me. We’ll wait for these bastards at the end of their bloody marathon.”
“Save me?” Andi looked at Hurricane with undisguised contempt, “you expect me to believe that?”
“Give me a chance,” Hurricane released his grip on her neck, “I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”
Hunter rubbed her bruised neck, “Then you know?”
“That I killed your twin sister?” Hurricane said, “I’m not some psycho like Sabretooth or Bullseye. I know the faces of my victims. At least, the innocent ones.”
“She was barely out of basic,” Hunter growled, her eyes wet with tears, “you butchered her like an animal…!”
“And I will never forgive myself for that,” Hurricane said, “and I would never ask that of you. All I ask is that you let me get you and your baby out of here. After that, we can settle up.”
Andi went pale.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You just told me, though the fact that you could smell the chicken I had with Solution was a clue. More than that, Project Hades is an odd name for a mission,” Hurricane said, “going into hell is the obvious thought, but Mr. Raven showed me a photo of you to recruit me. In Greek mythology, Hades kidnapped Persephone to be his bride. I’m guessing that you weren’t exactly kidnapped?”
“Mr. Raven planted me in Dran’s organization,” Andi said, “let’s just say that I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. I got close, got the intel he wanted, but at a price that comes due in a few months. I’m just lucky I’m not showing. Women in my family usually don’t.”
“All the same, your luck won’t hold forever,” said Hurricane, “so you have to make a choice. Trust me, or don’t. But you have to make a decision now.”
Hell’s Peake, normal time
“Damn it, he should be here,” Warcry said.
“He’s clearly not,” said Scorpion, “we should leave. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the chance we have of being found and horribly murdered.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Mr. Raven replied, “but to be frank, we are not enough. Even if he were here, we still wouldn’t be enough. We need every inch we can get!”
“There aren’t enough blades in the world to help you now air-breather.”
Mr. Raven, Warcry, and Scorpion muttered the same thing under their breath, as they turned and saw six Atlantean women approaching. They wore heavy metal armor, with gold shields on their wrists and spears in their hands. Their skin was lime green, and wore metal helmets filled with water.
“Dran has decreed your death,” said the leader, “and we, the Sisters Six of True Atlantis, will see to your end!”
-blam!-
The Atlantean farthest from them fell backwards, a bullet having pierced her eye.
“Excuse me,” Hurricane said, stepping past his fellow mercs, “I have a surprising amount of bloodlust I need to work off.”
Warcry observed a twitch in Hurricane’s eye.
“Help yourself.”
The Sisters of Atlantis all took an involuntary step backwards as they observed Hurricane. They knew of his past battles, and had assumed him wounded, depleted.
But the man standing before them didn’t have a mark on them. His body armor was brand new. He had a berretta on each hip, his vibranium machete in a sheath over his left shoulder, and a shotgun over his right. And his expression was pure ice.
“Sister Two! Spear this fool!”
The spear flew faster than Mr. Raven’s optics could track. All he saw was one of the Atleantean women motion, then Hurricane step to the side, catching it in one hand.
“Thank you.”
Hurricane snapped it in two, and two seconds later, there were only three remaining Sisters of Atlantis.
“Ordinarily, I’d let you run,” Hurricane saw how the three looked among one another, “but I can’t do that and I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ll kill you myself!” Sister One charged at Hurricane, her spear aimed at his heart.
“In combat, distance is your friend,” Hurricane swept his right wrist up, redirecting the spear away from his body, and then slammed his fist into Sister One’s throat.
“You and your friend,” Hurricane picked up Sister One’s shield, as she slowly tumbled to the ground, coughing up blood. He tested the weight for a second, and then sent it slicing through the air in an arc that would have impressed Captain America himself.
It struck the north side of the wall, ricocheted and then embedded itself in the metal of the south wall, leaving no Sisters of Atlantis standing.
“Damn dude,” Scorpion said, “PMS much?”
“I’ve had a day,” said Hurricane.
“Wouldn’t know it from looking at you,” Warcry said
“You have me to thank for that,” Andi Hunter said.
Warcry and Scorpion looked at Hunter with a wary eye. The fact that she wasn’t directing an army at them was a hopeful sign, but neither woman had survived this long by letting their guard down.
“Andi,” Mr. Raven said, “I hoped to greet you in better circumstances, but fate hasn’t been kind.”
“Clearly not,” Andi said, “I can’t linger long. Dran will begin to suspect me if I’m radio silent too long, and I can’t control the tenants without raising suspicions.”
“Well, I have this,” Andi handed Mr. Raven a handheld digital pad, “this will give you access to most of the cameras. And I can tell you where to find your friends, Hrist and the idiot with the sword.”
“Fate actually is smiling at someone,” Andi looked at Warcry with an amused chuckle, “they’re being held by an old friend of yours, General Tier.”
Warcry’s bloodied lips curled into a smile.
“About time I killed someone I actually wanted to.”
Next issue: Rescue, revenge and murder mission! But one cast member may not make it out alive!